


Gemini

by Lex_Munro



Series: Stories From the Fateverse [15]
Category: Deadpool (Comics), Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman, X-Men (Comicverse), Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sci-fi, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Depression, Gen, Genderswap, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lex_Munro/pseuds/Lex_Munro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidental magic leads to an investigation by the Auditor.  A London Below denizen known as the Bone Collector helps the Auditor find a pair of magical twins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Amazon

**Author's Note:**

> Set after [The Collector](http://archiveofourown.org/works/240193), in a timeline that's something like a cross between Neverwhere and the Sandman graphic novels.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Auditor needs Eight-ball's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auditor!Hope teams up with Mina to solve the unup problem.
> 
>  **warnings:**   AU - Fateverse.  sci-fi.  technobabble.  rampant pop culture references.  language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s***).
> 
>  **pairing:**   none/gen.
> 
>  **timeline:**   Network Operations 3652 (AD 6188), local years AD 2011 (FT Bundle) and AD 2005 (ES Bundle).
> 
>  **disclaimer:**   the original Wade, Weasel, and Hope belong to marvel.  au and au versions belong to me.  Coraline, Neverwhere, and all recognizable characters and terms thereof belong to Neil Gaiman.
> 
>  **notes:**   1) Mina probably favors Hamill!Joker over the live action Jokers.  2) Dawn French and Elizabeth Saunders are a female britcom duo.  they're amazing and hilarious, and portrayed a pair of creepy old ladies in the Coraline movie.  3) Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar are from Neverwhere.  4) rat-speakers, London Below, and London Above are also from Neverwhere.  5) St. Paul's is huge and famous cathedral in London (quite close to Cheapside and Blackfriars, in fact).  there are (as far as we know) no actual catacombs beneath it, just the crypt, which houses the remains of several national heroes.
> 
> visit [The Fateverse Glossary](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com/art/Fateverse-Glossary-174203180) and [The Fateverse Appendix](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com/art/Fateverse-Appendix-184289237) for terms, concepts, Nodes, and important people.

**The Amazon _or_ Summers and Princess Fifi**

 

Mina is trying to have a serious debate about who was the best Joker when a six-foot-tall redhead walks into the bar.

 _Holy shit, who let Red Sonja in here?_

Mina watches the Amazon cross the smoky gloom and confidently take the chair next to Weasel, who chokes on his beer and stares fixedly at the girl’s chest (in spite of, or maybe _because of_ , the fact that she looks barely legal).

“Willemina Wilson?” the redhead asks.  She’s got a prize-winning Serious Face.

 _Like, Captain America caliber serious.  Essence of Serious._

“The multiverse needs your help.”

Weasel is still staring his desperate, nerdy little heart out.  It’s kinda sweet, in a worshipful adolescent ‘dur-hur, boobies’ way.  In his defense, she’s got a nametag across her left bazoom that he may be trying to read.

 _Summers, huh?  Does the other one have a name, too?  Ba-dum-_ tish _._

“Stop it with the comedic drum-snap,” Mina mutters to her yellow boxes.

The redhead sighs and points at her right boob.  “And this one’s name is Princess Fifi.  It’s okay, Miss Wilson, I know all about the Little Yellow Boxes, and I can probably guess most of the things they’re saying.”

 _Gasp!  She can read my mind?!_

“No, I can’t read your mind, it’s more like a parlor trick.”

 _Holy crap!  Good trick…_

“I know.”  The redhead pulls a glass ball from somewhere and holds it up—looks like there’s writing inside.  “Miss Wilson, I’m Hope Summers, a Keeper with the Fidelis-473 Network—yes, it spells ‘fate’ in leet, but I don’t think that makes it inherently less trustworthy.  What I need from you is to turn on the nifty future-telling crystal ball in your purse and let me ask it some questions.”

 _Purse!_

Mina bristles.  “For your information, it’s a calfskin-lined elephant-hide carryall with adjustable twin straps and Kevlar paneling.  I consider it a very practical accessory, regardless of girly gender stereotypes.”

 _The shoes, tell her about the shoes._

“And I only own five pairs of shoes.  Two pairs of sneakers, two pairs of boots, and a pair of sensible-all-purpose black pumps.  So there.”

Hope holds a hand up.  “I’m sure you’re the farthest thing from a fashion slave.  Regardless of gender identity, wanting to look nice and knowing how to cook a five-course meal don’t make you June Cleaver.  You are a complete and utter badass, or they wouldn’t have given you Eight-ball.  I need to talk to him.  Please.”

Feeling properly placated, Mina digs into the main pocket of her carryall, nudges Mr. Bang Bang aside, and grabs a mini flashlight with her other hand to start the boot-up sequence.

 _~Hello again, Auditor.  I’ve been expecting you.~_

“I know,” says Hope.  “You should’ve been sent the data on the unup.  Can you trace the problem?”

 _~Yes.  And no.  From here, I can give you a general branch destination.  I’d have to go to the branch myself to identify the originator.~_

Hope looks at Mina with raised eyebrows.  “Up for a field trip?”

 _What’s in it for us?  We might miss Glee._

“The fate of the multiverse is probably hanging in the balance, including all your favorite TV shows.”

 _Gah, mind-reader!_

“I told you, I’m not a mind-reader.  I just know those little yellow boxes _very_ well.”

Mina pouts.  “Weas, add Glee to my Tivo.  And don’t delete any Battlestar or Torchwood to do it.”

Weasel gives Mina a dubious glance.  “What about Stargate?  Or Dr. Who?  Those are on Netflix, you could get ‘em any time…”

 _Not the Doc!_

“Ditch the SGU if you have to,” Mina grudgingly says.  “I’ll get around to cleaning out my Tivo eventually.”

Hope purses her lips.  “You realize that our interdimensional travel is really lateral time travel?”

 _~Actually,_ your _lateral transit is quantum tunneling, so it’s not technically time travel at all.~_

Mina closes the flap of her carryall and hoists it onto her shoulder.  “Let’s get going.  And explain to me what an ‘unup’ is.”

Hope leads the way back out of the bar, around the corner, into a nice, smelly alley.  “You’ll need to turn him off,” she says, gesturing to the carryall.  “We can’t leave him here.”

“So he’ll get left if we don’t turn him off?” Mina asks, opening the bag again.

 _~Yeees.  And no.~_

“You’re a real comedian, sweetheart,” Mina snorts.  “Tell me all about it later.”  When her hand touches the warm surface of the sphere, it goes dark and cool.

Hope shakes her head.  “Kali, get me the entry on the branch designation Eight-ball sent.”

White text flashes through the reddish sphere in Hope’s hand.

“Dammit, Wade,” she mutters.

“Who?” Mina asks.

“You.  Sort of.  But not.  Um.”  Hope glances at Mina, makes a funny little thoughtful face.  “Well, my dad married my best friend, who happened to be a version of you.  A really awesome version of you.  I inherited Kali from him.  Before he died, this was his job, running around solving multiverse problems by assassinating people and relocating people, and he wrote down a lot of little notes about the places he went, but they’re kind of…off-color.  Like most things written by Wades.”

“So what’s it say about this…branch designation-thingy?”

Hope sighs.  “It says, ‘A little gender-flippy and sci-fantasy-ish.  Consider Neil Gaiman books to be user’s manual.’”

“Ooh, the Coraline dude?”

 _That movie was awesome.  French ‘n Saunders ftw._

Hope shrugs.  “I dunno, I’ve never heard of him.  But it’s not all that surprising to find a branch that bears similarity to somebody’s fiction writing—when something’s written down and shared, it starts to resonate, and the more people read it and think about it and believe in it, the more the strength of that resonance increases.  I guess that could make imaginary things real somewhere in the timestream.  I mean, it’s not like we’ve even charted the whole thing, that’d be ridiculous.  We’ve only poked around the main trunk and anything structurally related, there’s probably millions of branches we’ve never even looked at.”

“If a universe is everything, then the multiverse would have to be pretty damn big,” Mina reasons.  “And somebody said ‘every book is a world.’  I think I read that somewhere.”

“I’m kinda new to this job, okay?” Hope says sourly.  “I haven’t actually done much traveling, myself…just a few trips here and there, until Wade died.  For all I know, there’s a whole bundle of Hitchhiker’s Guide branches.”

“Hm.  Think the Improbability Drive could eventually land somebody here?”

“Probably.  Or, y’know, improbably.  Whatever—god, you’re gonna get me _so_ sidetracked the whole time.  Kali, open the tunnel.”

 _~Warning:  lateral transit destination is marked red and uninitiated.  All tuning should be done incognito.  Bundle Keeper has been alerted to your operation.  Warning:  lateral transit destination is rated for potentially hostile natives.~_

“Acknowledged.”

Groovy.

A pretty ring of flickering light forms in midair.

 _Dude, it looks like a Stargate._

Then it moves toward them and around them, and Mina feels a ticklish sensation like standing in carbonated water.  And then they’re standing in a much dirtier alley, and the assorted shouting and city-noise is distinctly British.

Mina watches a rat scurry behind a dumpster at the sight of them.  “Okay, scratch the Coraline thing.  This place reeks of Neil’s seriously creepy stuff.  Um.  If you see a pair of guys that look like a fox and a wolf in human form, please blast the crap out of them with one of your cool future-guns.”

“Uh, right…” says Hope.

Mina really, really, _really_ hopes they won’t run into Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar.  She hurries through waking Eight-ball back up.  “Eight-ball, please tell me there’s no Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar here.”

 _~We’ve got bigger things to worry about.~_

“Bigger things than a pair of unkillable knife-happy crazies?” Mina hisses.

 _~Bigger, yes.  Besides, nobody’s paid them to go after you.  Wade’s around here somewhere—ask a rat-speaker for directions.~_

“Can I just say that I don’t like the sound of the phrase ‘pair of unkillable knife-happy crazies’?” Hope mutters nervously.  “And what’s a rat-speaker?”

Mina gives her a Look.

 _Someone who talks to rats.  Duh._

“I mean besides the obvious,” Hope sighs.

“Well, there _isn’t_ anything besides the obvious,” Mina tells her.  “Let’s get to a Tube station; there’s bound to be rat-speakers in a place like that.”

“Tube?”

“Subway.  And if you ask what a subway is, I may have to scream.”  Mina carefully pokes her head out of the alley, but it looks like nobody’s paying attention.

 _Awesome, we’re a Below denizen by default._

 _~Hang a left,~_ Eight-ball says.  _~And then another at the end of the block.  Can’t miss it.~_

“Hey!” Hope gripes when somebody thumps into her.  “Whoa.  Okay.  Um.  Is it normal for them to act like they can’t see me?”

“Yep,” says Mina.  “Learn to dodge.”

Once they’re underground, with all the usual subway stink of garbage, urine, and people, Mina looks around the nooks and corners for someone promising.

Ah.

There, a skinny boy in mismatched rags, face covered in grime, bony hand outstretched for change.  A cardboard sign at his side says ‘orfan w/ 2 babby sistres.’

Mina prods the kid with the toe of her boot.  “Really got two sisters?” she asks.

Two dark eyes focus on her sharply.  “Yeah,” the kid says in a tone that implies immediate suspicion.  “You American?”

“If by ‘American’ you mean ‘from a continent with America in the name,’ sure.  Need a rat-speaker to help us find somebody.”

The kid’s eyes widen, and he barks out a harsh laugh.  “Rat-speaker, right.  Bin listenin’ to too many fairy-stories, missie.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Mina says flatly.  She pulls a knife from her belt and starts flipping it between her fingers.  “Does this look like a London Above face?  Tell me where I can find a rat-speaker to chat with, or I’ll turn you into _food_ for the rat-speakers.”

The boy goes pale under his layer of grime and jerks his chin toward the dark maw of the tunnel.  “First service door.  Dun’t take kindly to unexpected guests.”

 _~We can take care of ourselves,~_ says Eight-ball.

Mina walks around the corner into darkness, skirting the narrow service walkway with its mournful, flickering light bulb.

 _I think all subways really were created equal._

“No,” says Hope.  “There are some in Japan that are actually really nice.”

 _Mind-reader!_

“Still not a mind-reader.”

There’s a rusty chain and padlock on the first service door they come to, and Mina pauses to consider it.

Behind her, a train clatters past.

“This place is seriously damaging my calm, Miss Wilson,” Hope squeaks, which makes Mina think she was startled by the train.

“Look, I’m not a kindergarten teacher.  Call me Mina.”  And she kicks the door open.  The rusted chain clatters to the ground.  “Knock-knock.”

Beyond the door is a shadowed stairwell.  Something at the top scuttles away.

“Little light, please?”

Eight-ball obediently glows in her hand, sending watery beams of light out into the dark.

After the stairs, there’s a long hallway.  A few people are hunkered by one wall, warming their hands around the stereotypical barrel of burning rubbish.  They eye Mina and Hope, but don’t move.

“Hi,” says Mina.  “Need to ask a rat-speaker where to find somebody.”

They scoff to each other and return their attention to the fire.

“Arready found ‘somebody,’ din’tcha?” says a gruff, bearded man.  “Now, if youse twos is after a _specific_ ‘somebody,’ y’might try a bit o’ description, dearie-o.”

 _~We’re looking for Wade Wilson,~_ Eight-ball says.

Once again, the people around the barrel look at Mina.

The gruff man peels away from the group and wipes his grubby hands on the ends of his coat.  “Ol’ Wadey?  What for?”

 _~To talk.  About saving the world, if you really wanna know.~_

“Hrmph,” says the man.  “Figgers.  An’ what’s in it for me, I asks ye?”

Mina digs around in her carryall.  “Uh.  I got some gum.  And a couple wet-wipes.  Ooh!  Book of matches.”

Suddenly, the man is much closer.  “Fire in the hand, indeedy!” he exclaims with his hand out.

Mina hands him the book of matches (from Flo’s Diner, don’t ask).

He leaves his hand out.  “And the gum.  Amazing what use a bit of bubble can be.”

Scowling, Mina gives him the gum (Stride Mystery Flavor, which she’s pretty sure is something mango-ish).

The rat-speaker (if rat-speaker he is) stuffs his spoils into his coat pocket and beckons.  “Arright, arright.  This way.  Bit of a walk, though—Wadey likes them cattercombs, so it’s off to St. Paul’s.”

Past the ring of firelight, he crouches and chitters to the dark, and something scampers off.

“Uh, what was that?” asks Hope.

“Sendin’ word ahead, missie,” says the rat-speaker.  “Doesn’t do to show up unexpected-like to Wadey’s door.”

“Rats, it had to be _rats_ ,” mutters Hope.

The rat-speaker cackles and leads them along by the winnowing light of the Node in Mina’s hand.

 

 **.End.**


	2. The Scrimshander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They call her the Bone Collector because she's a scrimshander--she carves bones for a living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally the first part of a much longer piece, but i felt like i was rambling on too much at once, and it was time to give the readers a chance at a break.
> 
>  **warnings:**   AU - Fateverse.  sci-fi.  technobabble.  crossover with several flavors of Neil Gaiman literature, notably Neverwhere.  rampant pop culture references.  language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s***).
> 
>  **pairing:**   none/gen.
> 
>  **timeline:**   Network Operations 3652 (AD 6188), local year AD 2005.
> 
>  **disclaimer:**   the original Wade and Hope belong to marvel.  au and au versions belong to me.  Neverwhere, the Sandman graphic novels, and all recognizable characters and terms thereof belong to Neil Gaiman. John Constantine and the Hellblazer comics belong to Delano & Ridgway.
> 
>  **notes:**   1) i'll let the Scrimshander explain what a scrimshander is.  2) Mina's exaggerating about the monster population in Neil's literature.  a little.  3) actually, catacombs and cairns aren't just home to undead; they're the favored hangouts of nasty scavenger-fey like the Red Cap.  4) i know people like Hope--big, tough guys 'n gals who are afraid of or grossed out by the silliest little things.  5) i'm totally envisioning Wade doing the King Julian bit with the skeletal arm.  she uses it for a pointer, a scepter, a conductor's wand, a back-scratcher, a comedy prop...  6) "cuppa" is a British-ism for "cup of tea."  7) Leonard McCoy?  get it?  those of you who get the joke have met your minimum sci-fi geek requirement for being one of my fans.  i'll get back to you later on minimums for other spheres of geekdom.  8) Hope had the "i was expecting a guy" line used on her by a very nervous Will in [Call for Pickup](http://archiveofourown.org/works/240193/chapters/369240).  9) Ashley started out as an Old English surname.  and then it was a MALE given name.  10) "cool beans," the catch-phrase for the character Trixie in the English dub of the old Speed Racer anime, is what Mina said when she decided to keep Eight-ball in [Bequeath](http://archiveofourown.org/works/240193/chapters/369242).  11) "inorite" is the internettish spelling of the phrase "i know, right?"  12) Criss Angel is a douchebag of a theatrical illusionist who thrives on being superior to other people.  i mean, the guy once cussed out Perez Hilton while on stage, how lame do you have to be to feel like you should actually dignify Perez Hilton with the act of speaking to him?  13) the male duck-billed platypus is indeed one of the very few venomous mammals.  this is just another piece of evidence supporting the theory that everything in Australia is out to get you, with the possible exception of some of the natives.  platypi are also among the few species of mammal that lay eggs (monotremes).  they are very, very, VERY weird creatures.  14) a leyline is a magically sensitive border between dimensions (usually between the mortal realm and heaven or hell).  more scientifically, a leyline connects important geographical features (like springs), and may be of magnetic or tectonic significance.  15) Constantine once appeared in the Sandman comics, helping Dream find one of his lost items of power.  16) Wade's making a reference to the movie/graphic novel 300, where the Spartans stacked up the bodies of the slain Persian advance force into a defensive wall.  17) by "Them," Wade of course means "the Endless."
> 
> visit [The Fateverse Glossary](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com/art/Fateverse-Glossary-174203180) and [The Fateverse Appendix](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com/art/Fateverse-Appendix-184289237) for terms, concepts, Nodes, and important people.

**The Scrimshander**

 

The rat-speaker geezer stops walking.  Just stops.  He turns and stares at them.

“What?” asks Hope.  “Go on.”

“Far’s I go, ladies,” says the rat-speaker.  “There’s things dwells in cattercombs wot gobbles up the unwary, and I ain’t bin paid enough to be et.”

 _Can’t really argue with that logic._

So Mina holds Eight-ball a little higher and keeps walking.

Gradually, concrete gives way to damp stone, and the sounds of their movements become wet and echoing.

“This is _so_ Helm’s Deep,” Hope mutters.

“Funny you should mention,” says Mina.  “There tend to be nasty, nasty monsters in Neil’s books.  If you sort of…take every creepy myth ever and roll ‘em all up…you’re kinda getting close to what we just stepped right into.”

“Do you happen to know any specific myths about catacombs?”

“Uhhh, they’re infested with generic undead?”

Hope follows much closer.  “Anything of the ‘gobbles the unwary’ variety?”

“I dunno.  Something summoned by a necromancer?  Maybe a bone demon or something?  Don’t think too hard about it.  Think of something else.  You never told me what an ‘unup’ is.”

“ _Un_ authorized _up_ stream tuning.  Unup.”

 _They have a law for that?_

“Yes, we have a law for that.  We have a whole lotta laws about what you can and can’t do to the timestream, most of them punishable by refrigeration.”

 _Refrigeration?  Well, that doesn’t sound too—_

“As in cryogenic incarceration.”

 _Oh._

“And resisting arrest is punishable by immediate re-tuning.”

“That sounds unpleasant.  And permanent.”

“Pretty much.”

Out in the darkness, Eight-ball’s glow picks out thin and pointed white shapes.

Mina winces.  “Dude, seriously?  Yuck.”

“What?”

“Bones.  Lots.”

Hope makes a pitiful little squeaky noise and stops walking.

“Oh, _really_ ,” huffs Mina, looking at the big redhead.  “You could probably snap a bone demon in half with arms like those.”

A hooded figure appears behind Hope and peers around her.  “She’s right,” the figure says in a smoke-rough female voice.

Hope, for all that she’s six feet tall and looks like she bench presses pre-teen fanboys in her spare time, shrieks like a little girl.

Mina tilts her head.  “And _you’re_ in charge of saving the multiverse.  Awesome.”

The hooded woman whips out a tape measure and starts holding it up to Hope’s arms and legs.  “Get a lot of calcium in your diet, sweetie?  Any history of cancer?  Bone disease?  Osteoporosis?  Gout?  What’s your fracture history like?”

“Mina, she’s _measuring my bones_ ,” Hope hisses.

Mina rolls her eyes.  “Hey, crazy-hood-lady.  We’re looking for Wade Wilson.”

With a hushed swish of heavy fabric (and no footsteps), the hooded woman darts around Hope and eyes Mina instead.  “Are your shins in good shape?”

“I _said_ —”

Ink-stained hands fly up in exasperation.  “Honey, do I really need to quote Yoda?”

“You-you-you—” says Hope.

“Also go by ‘The Bone Collector,’” says Wade, holding out a fully articulated skeletal hand and forearm.  “How d’you do?”

“Mina?” squeaks Hope.

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna faint now.”

And she does.

Wade laughs and waves the skeletal hand at Mina before stuffing it back into the depths of her cloak.  “God, that never gets old!  C’mon in, put your feet up, have a cuppa.”  She turns and walks into a dense rectangle of darkness.  A fire roars to life beyond, revealing the outline of a door.

“What about her?” Mina asks, trying to decide if it’s worth the effort to pick Hope up and carry her on in.

“Leonard’ll get her.”

“Leon—”  Mina breaks off when she sees a very large _thing_ made of bone and clockwork (or clockwork bones?) shamble toward her and kneel to lift Hope princess-style.

“Get it?” chortles Wade, suddenly beside Mina and elbowing her sharply.

 _McCoy._

“Ohhhhh,” says Mina.  “Star Trek.  Gotcha.”

Five minutes later, they’re drinking very good tea out of cups that Mina is going to pretend are made of porcelain.  If you don’t know what they’re made of, the cups are very pretty—they’re translucent and feature intricate little carved floral designs.

Hope snaps awake on the tatty armchair where Leonard the bone-golem-thing deposited her.

“Hi, welcome back,” says Wade.

“Are those cups made out of—”

“Yep.”

“And you’re—”

“Really Wade Wilson, yes.”

Hope waves her hand in complicated loops.  “I was expecting…”

Wade copies the motion.  “Santa?”

“…a guy,” Hope finishes lamely, like she’s had the line used on her.

 _Hey, part and parcel of the whole ‘chick who kicks ass’ shtick._

“I mean, Wade’s a guy’s name.”

Wade puts her hands on her hips.  “So’s Ashley.  _You_ wanna tell the millions of girls named Ashley?  Now, the rat said you were looking for me to talk about saving the multiverse or something.”

Hope points at Eight-ball.

Mina points at Eight-ball.  “He’s robbing this train, sister, we’re just holding the guns.”

 _~Hello, Wade.  I’m Eight-ball.~_

“As in Magic Eight-ball?”

 _~Exactly.~_

Mina nods helpfully.  “He can see the futures.”

“Cool beans.”

“Inorite?”

Wade sets aside her teacup and leans closer to Eight-ball.  “How’s business gonna be for me at the next Floating Market?”

 _~Brisk.  Wade, have you heard of anyone doing_ big _magic lately?~_

She shrugs under her hood.  “Define ‘big.’  ‘Big magic’ as in ‘Criss Angel made a jumbo jet disappear’?  Or ‘big magic’ as in ‘somebody rearranged the universe so that platypi now have tusks’?”

 _~Platypi.  But probably not with actual venomous monotremes.~_

“Well…I heard one of Elphembre’s kids has the Gift.  Born under super-duper-special stars on a convergence of leylines, blah-de-blah…  As far as I know, nothing outta the ordinary’s been done around here, but you never really know, with Islington gone.  Now, if it was happening Above, then it’d be a lot less likely for anybody to notice until it was too late, like that time some quack thought it’d be funny to lock up Morpheus.”

 _~We’ll need to speak with Elphembre’s children in person, then.~_

Wade throws back her head and laughs.  In the firelight, Mina can see that she’s pretty and has golden hair (Mina would resent her for this if she didn’t live underground and play with skeletons).  “Oh!  Oh, god!” Wade gasps between giggles.  “You can’t just walk up to the Red Wizard and say ‘hi, I wanna chat with your daughters’!  That’s like walking up to Constantine and saying ‘please exorcize me.’  We’re talking about a guy who did the spartan gig and started building a wall outta people who’ve looked at his daughters wrong.  And he refuses to let the poor schmucks die, which puts a real cramp in my business.”

“What, um,” Hope delicately says, glancing around the darkened chamber.  “What exactly _is_ your business?”

“Toldya.  I’m the Bone Collector.  A Scrimshander.”

 _Scrim-what?_

“No offense, but that kinda sounds like something slimy that lives underground,” says Mina.

Wade picks up her teacup and gestures to it.  “Scrimshander, not _salamander_.  I do scrimshaw.  Bone carving.”

Mina wags a thumb toward the door.  “So Lenny out there’s just a hobby?”

“Actually, that’s where all the money is in scrimshaw…”  Wade puts her cup back down and hops out of her chair to go digging in the darkness for something.  The noise is slightly hollow and clattering, like she’s digging through a drawer of—

 _Wooden beads.  Pretend it’s wooden beads._

—wooden beads.

She comes back with a small skeleton and sets it on the table.

Mina recognizes the teeth and elongated spine of a cat.

Wade’s hands vanish into her cloak for a moment before coming out with a little bottle (in fact, it’s a mini-bar bottle, and the cap still says ‘BACARDI’) labeled ‘cat.’  She uncaps it near the skeleton’s face and jiggles it until a little twist of smoke comes out.  The cat skeleton starts to cough and sneeze, and Wade caps the bottle and puts it away.

“That’s,” Hope gulps.  “Um.”

The cat skeleton shakes itself, starting at the head and ending at the tail, then prowls gracefully along the table to inspect the tea tray.

 _Dude.  Undead cat.  Is that redundant?_

“See, bones—well, lots of things, actually—remember what they were used for,” Wade explains excitedly.  “You carve the right runes on them in the right places, and they’ll try to do what they always did.  They’re a little unstable, though, so it’s better to add gears and hooks and things to keep them articulated.  But they’re just wind-up toys if you don’t have a soul for ‘em.  Cats are easiest; you can animate nine cute little bone-kitties with one cat-soul.  I use ‘em to keep down the local rat population, since those fuckers will eat right through my stock.  Then I use the rat bones for fiddly clockwork.  It all works out.  Think of me as a… _life recycler_.”

“Muh,” whimpers Hope.

“Neat,” says Mina.  “Anyhoo, we really need to talk with this Elf-dude’s girls, or whichever one of them does magic, and make sure she knows not to do universe-rearrange-y things.”

Wade heaves a thick sigh and shoos the bone-cat away from the cream.  “Fine.  Fine, fine, _fine_.  Just make sure not to hold hands with any white-skinned goth chicks you may or may not see on our way.”

“What,” says Hope.

“Death,” says Mina.  The bone-cat is gently butting its skull against her calf and…purring.

“ _What_ ,” says Hope.

“You think I do this for my health?” laughs Wade.  “I play with souls ‘n skeletons to try and bring her here.  Yeah, she comes around, but she never takes me with her when she goes.  Keeps insisting it’s not my time, but it’s been thousands ‘n _thousands_ of years, how can it _not_ be my time yet, but she just says ‘it’s not time yet,’ and goes about her business, which I think is just plain mean and neglectful, but she is just _aces_ at playing hard-to-get, and have you ever tried to play tag with one of Them, because I’ll tell you, it’s _hard_ , and—”

 _~Wade,~_ Eight-ball interrupts.

She takes a long breath.  “Right.  Red Wizard.  Your funeral, and I ain’t comin’.  Actually, that’s a lie—if he kills you, I’m totally taking those shinbones.  I’ll say something nice.  ‘Alack for Mina, her legs were just the right size.’”

“I guess we could’ve asked if you know how to _get_ to this Elf-guy’s place,” Mina notes.

Wade finishes her tea.  “Elphembre,” she corrects.  “With a PH, not an F.  And RE instead of ER, because this is Britain.  Blimey.  Actually, I dunno why he spells it like that.  For all I know, he had a perfectly normal name like John or William—cue John Williams gag—and thought it didn’t sound cool enough for a wizard.”

“I know a Will like that…” mutters Hope.

“The important part is that I know how to get to his place from Above or Below, whichever you like best.  It’s safer Above, but it’s a longer walk.”

“If it’s quicker, let’s go from Below,” Hope says, but frowns like she longs to get back to sunshine and cats with fur.

“Well, we’ll need a cat.”  Wade gets up and grabs the un-cat from where it’s been rattling around between Mina’s ankles.  It makes a curious mrrp noise like cats do (when they’re alive, anyway).  “Aaaand the Lantern.  Wherever I left it.  Hm.  Here, hold this.”  And Wade deposits the cleverly reanimated animal in Hope’s lap.

“Eeeeeeeee…” Hope squeaks in horror.

“Rrrow?” says the un-cat.

“Oh, you big _sissy_ ,” Mina sighs, and rescues the redhead by scooping up the un-cat.  At that point, she notices a silver tag dangling from its collarbone that reads ‘Mr. Binky.’  “Mr. Binky, huh?”

“Rrrp,” says the un-cat.

“Aha- _ha_!” cries Wade, surfacing from the mess of drawers and cupboards and shelves and things in the dark corners of the room.  A curl of blond hair has escaped her hood, and she impatiently shoves it back in.  She shows them a gleaming black lantern.  “Bet you don’t know what this is.”

 _Of course we don’t know what that is._

“A lantern?” Hope guesses.

“Ding-ding-ding,” Wade praises.  “It’s a _Black_ Lantern.  For Black Flame Candles.”  She opens the door of the lantern to show a stubby golden candle.

“Good?” hazards Mina.  “So…that’s what we need to get to Elph-whosit’s place from Below?  Mr. Binky and a Black Flame Candle?”

 _Sounds like a band name._

“Everything sounds like a band name to you,” Hope mutters.

Wade strikes a match, lights the candle, and carefully closes the lantern.  After a second or so, the flame of the candle turns black.

In the ‘light’ from the Black Lantern, things look… _different_.  Mr. Binky is a marmalade-tabby with a complacent sort of expression on his face.  Wade’s hands are gnarled and clawed, like the hands of a corpse.  Mina’s skin is smooth and unblemished (and for the first time in maybe twenty years, she wishes for a mirror).

Wade leads them out into the catacombs.

The Black Lantern illuminates the bones in glowing moonbeam colors, and reveals the prowling shapes of a few more un-cats, which slink away into the dark.

“Put him down,” Wade says.

Mina sets Mr. Binky on the stony floor, where he stretches luxuriantly.

“Wait for it.”

Mr. Binky whips his head around, tail high and ears working like he’s heard something in the distance.  Then he sets off at a trot.

“Ladies, follow that cat!”

“So why are we following a cat?” Hope asks.  “What I mean is—how does the cat know the way?”

“You’ll see,” Wade assures her.  “Just, whatever you do, don’t lose sight of the cat.”

“Why?  What happens if we do?”

“At best, you’ll end up lost somewhere.  At worst, you’ll get your soul eaten.  I _did_ say Above was safer.”

 

 **.End.**


	3. Gator Alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mina, Wade, and Hope set off for the home of the Red Wizard.  His twin daughters have some 'splainin' to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title fail.  i had no idea what to call this part.  and i feel like it's done, but i'm also going "well, that was awful anticlimactic..." y'know?  and, as always, i fail at writing action, so i fake it by cutting things short.
> 
>  **warnings:**   AU - Fateverse.  sci-fi.  technobabble.  crossover with several flavors of Neil Gaiman literature, notably Neverwhere.  brief mild violence.  rampant pop culture references.  language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f***).
> 
>  **pairing:**   none/gen (well, a little innocent fem!Billy/Teddy).
> 
>  **timeline:**   Network Operations 3652 (AD 6188), local year AD 2005.
> 
>  **disclaimer:**   the original Wade, Hope, Billy, Tommy, and Teddy belong to marvel.  au and au versions belong to me.  Neverwhere, the Sandman graphic novels, and all recognizable characters and terms thereof belong to Neil Gaiman.
> 
>  **notes:**   1) depending on the local climate, gators and their kin love places like storm drains.  however, the idea of giant alligators colonizing a metropolitan sewer system (especially NYC or London) is pretty absurd.  fortunately, the world described in Neverwhere is a haven for absurd urban legends.  2) "but can she pull out a coat rack" is a reference to Mary Poppins and her magical carpet-bag.  3) Hope's Boomstick is probably an AA12, a fully-automatic assault shotgun that can fire pretty much any kind of ammo that fits, including little 12-gauge mini-warheads.  it's self-cleaning and fires 5 rounds per second from a 20-round drum.  4) a gator on land can sprint at 30 mph in a short straight line.  5) Mr. Bang Bang is, if you'll recall, a 50-cal Desert Eagle.  6) Elphembre's mansion is a black Victorian-style house with three floors above-ground and a cellar.  it has the curious property of existing both in a cavern of London Below and in a small plot in London Above...from inside the house, all the windows show a view of the Above locale, where the Front Wall is made of stone, not people.  isn't magic great?  7) the myth goes that bluebells ring at midnight to call the fairies, and anyone who hears them ringing will be dead by morning.  as we all know, cats are so ignorant or uncaring of the boundaries between worlds that they might as well be undead, so i figure they can hear bluebells with a little bit of magical assistance.  8) in terms of Wade's special variety of scrimshaw, a skeleton key would probably be made from a locksmith's finger bones.  9) a dumbwaiter is like an elevator for food and dishes.  it saves on having to carry things up and down stairs.  10) to drive somebody around the bend is to drive her crazy.  11) "shut it" = "shut up."  12) when a kitty claims you, there's really nothing for it but to grit your teeth and give up a shin.  13) in this case, "Gleek" is a portmanteau of "Glee" and "geek," and is the term Glee fans use for themselves.
> 
> visit [The Fateverse Glossary](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com/art/Fateverse-Glossary-174203180) and [The Fateverse Appendix](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com/art/Fateverse-Appendix-184289237) for terms, concepts, Nodes, and important people.

**Gator Alert**

 

Tunnels and tunnels, stone and brick and cobble.  Sometimes they hear people laughing and talking nearby.  Sometimes they hear whispers, or screams.  They never see any other people.  They never see animals, besides Mr. Binky.

And then Mr. Binky stops, back arched and fur standing up, and hisses.

“What?” Hope whispers.  “What is it?”

Wade raises the lantern a bit.  A pair of very large eyes glints in the darkness.  Something growls.  “Oh.  Hm.  Well, you know how I mentioned things trying to eat your soul?”

“Obliquely, yes.”

“I forgot to mention the things that’ll try to eat _the rest_ of you.  But don’t worry, it won’t eat me.”

“That’s…special, Wade.  Thank you, I feel much better knowing that.”

 _~Mina.~_

She looks at Eight-ball and sees a faint white wire-frame projection.  “Alligators in the sewers, are you fucking _kidding_?”

“Not a bit,” says Wade.  “I’m surprised it hasn’t killed you yet.  Maybe it just ate.”

Mina starts slowly backing up as she reaches into her carryall for Mr. Bang Bang.  “If that thing’s a gator, it’s gotta be the size of a fuckin’ _Buick_.  Red?”

“Yeah?” says Hope.

“Set phasers to kill, please.”

“On it.”  There’s a twinkle of light and a high-tech hum as she pulls a huge shotgun out of nowhere ( _Ah, but can she pull out a coat rack?_ ), and another as she pulls out a drum magazine for it.  “This, uh.  This is gonna be really loud.  Maybe someone should grab the cat?”

Wade unconcernedly lifts the furiously spitting feline in her free hand and gets out of the way.  “Knock ‘im dead, girls.  I’m rooting for you—hate to see those shins get crunched, after all.”

“Of course, there’s still the problem that we can’t really see it,” Hope points out.

Mina considers throwing Eight-ball.

 _~Don’t you dare.  Roll me.  Gently, please.~_

She bowls Eight-ball gently toward the beast.

In the watery flare of light, the giant reptile coils backward and snaps its jaws at them.

“That’s a _lot_ bigger than a frigging Buick, Mina,” Hope complains.

“Less talky, more shooty!”

Whatever the hell gun Hope has, it’s magnificent.  In the echoing dampness of the tunnels, it sounds like a small cannon going off at a couple hundred rounds a minute.

 _I want one.  Or two—one for each hand._

It pisses the gator the hell off, though.  With chunks being taken out of it, the gator starts to move, and any idiot who’s watched a little Animal Planet knows that gators are fucking _fast_.

 _Shoulda brought bigger guns, shoulda brought a sword, shoulda brought_ more _guns…_

Mina waits for the ‘yawn,’ the moment when the gator opens its mouth wide to strike.  A double-tap with Mr. Bang Bang does the trick.  Couple of fifty cal rounds through the roof of the mouth does the trick for _most_ critters, to Mina’s experience.

The huge reptile slides to a halt about a foot away, blood and other fluids spreading in a growing puddle around it.

“See?” says Wade.  “That wasn’t so bad.  Shame we’re so far out, though…gator bones are a _goldmine_ in my profession.  Shall we?”

Mina keeps her sidearm trained on the slumped monster while she retrieves Eight-ball.  Just in case.

Walking around the carcass, Wade sets the cat back down and waits.

“So, that shotgun…” says Mina.

Hope puts it away with another flicker of light.  “Yeah, sorry, I was supposed to say something cool like ‘this is my Boomstick.’”

“Well, you’re new,” Mina consoles her.

And then Mr. Binky (after bathing his knee with a tongue he no longer has) bounds off into the darkness again.

The tunnels seem endless and oddly disjointed, like the un-cat is making things fit together when they shouldn’t (or maybe it’s the lantern).  Broad and narrow, straight and curving, branches and forks and doors.  Sewers and cellars and the spaces between walls.  They hear everything from muted prayers to distant jazz music to the clanking of cutlery on plates.  Still no people.  No more gators, either, fortunately.

Just when it looks like Hope’s getting tired, the un-cat trots up a stairway into the dull golden glow of a garden lit by strands of yellow paper lanterns.  Up above is air and darkness, with the distinct impression of being underground.  The garden is fairly big, stuffed to bursting with ornamental plants and trees, and centers around a gazebo.  Statues of angels are peppered among the plant life.

The whole affair is enclosed by a high stone wall, and nothing says ‘trespassers can fuck off and die’ like a ten-foot wall topped with broken glass.

A stone path lined with little pale purplish flowers leads up to an ornate wooden door in the side of a huge Victorian house.

 _Looks like the Addams family mansion._

“Rrrrow!” Mr. Binky says proudly.

“Bluebells,” says Mina.

“A cat in the light of a Black Flame Candle can hear them ringing,” Wade explains.  “They run straight for ‘em, like a dog to a whistle.”  She opens the lantern and blows out the candle.  Then she puts it away somewhere in the depths of her cloak.

On the other side of the garden wall, Mina can hear a low and miserable moaning sound.

“What’s that noise?” asks Hope.

“Just the Front Wall,” Wade dismisses.  “I toldya—Elphembre built a wall outta guys who looked at his daughters funny.  Now, pipe down a bit, because this is the back door and we’re kinda gonna talk to the twins without permission.”

While Wade digs around in her cloak, Mina picks up Mr. Binky and puts him in her carryall.  After a moment, she decides to stick Eight-ball in there, too (there’s a tinking noise as the un-cat briefly investigates the new object).

It seems to take a good deal of digging to find whatever Wade’s looking for, because she ends up pulling one side of her cloak wide open, showing stained jeans and a very frumpy sweater, as well as a jangling assortment of bones, bottles, buttons, beads, and everything in-between.

“If this is the back door, then how are you planning—” Hope starts to say, but stops when Wade pulls out a pale key.  “A skeleton key.  Of course.”

“Of course,” Wade repeats, and unlocks the door.  “Another fine ware of the expert scrimshander, able to open any lock.  Can I interest you in one?  I’ll cut ya a deal—only half your soul.”

“I think I’ll keep the whole thing, thanks.”

“Eh, suit yourself.”  Wade opens the door.  “And don’t touch anything.”

Beyond the door is a dim hallway, dark floral wallpaper lit by rose-shaded gas lamps.  Mina feels her boots sink into the deep pile of the runner, which is a bloody shade of red, bright against the near-black of the wooden floor.  Hope conscientiously closes the door behind them.

Wade leads them through a door and into another hallway.  This hallway is drab and bare, and ends by opening out into a kitchen.  There are three big stone ovens and two cast-iron stoves, all dark and cold.  Herbs and vegetables hang from the ceiling, copper pots on the walls.  A golden-eyed black cat watches from a cushioned wicker bed in the corner.  On the back wall are a dumbwaiter and a set of stairs.  Wade bustles up, skeleton key still grasped in one hand.

They skip the door on the first landing and keep climbing to the next.  The third hallway they traverse is very like the first, except that along one wall are windows that let in dreary London daylight.

“Weren’t we just—” Hope starts to ask, and Mina has to hurriedly slap a hand over the redhead’s mouth.

“Stealth fail,” Mina whispers.

“Sorry,” Hope sheepishly whispers back.

Wade unlocks a door and goes in.

Mina shoves Hope after Wade and pulls the door shut.

It’s a bedroom.  A very _girly_ bedroom.  On the right wall is the bed, an old-fashioned four-poster with a pink canopy.  There’s a pink-and-white vanity on the far wall, and a big wooden wardrobe on the left.

A girl slams the wardrobe door closed and leans casually against it.  “Nobody!” she says.  Then she relaxes.  “Oh, it’s just you, Wade.  I thought you were Daddy.”

 _~That’s the one,~_ Eight-ball says from somewhere under Mr. Binky.

The girl (who looks like she’s about fifteen and never goes topside) has long, wavy black hair and big brown eyes, and she’s built a lot like a stick figure in a dress and tights.  “Who’s the one?” she asks nervously.  “The one what?  Wade, why is that lady’s purse talking?”

“Carryall!” Mina bites out.  “It’s a _carryall_.”  She fishes Eight-ball out and holds him up.

 _~Yes, she’s the one.  Illamar Magnus.~_

“Jeez, no, gosh, I _hate_ that name!” whines the girl.  “Illy.  _Illy_.”

“Illy,” says Hope, with a slightly pained expression on her face.  “You wouldn’t happen to be a lonely misfit _nerd_ , would you?”

“Oh, rub it in, that’s great,” Illy snorts.

There’s a resounding knock at the door.

“Illy, are you _talking to yourself_ again?” another girl calls.  “Because I can almost hear it from my room, and it’s driving me right around the bend.”

“Oh _no_ , my _sister_ ,” says Illy.  “Um.  Can you guys—girls—hide?  Under the bed or something?”

“Is your sister’s name Tanya, or something like that?” Hope asks.

Illy pauses in trying to push Wade toward the bed.  “What?  No.  That’s ridiculous.  Why would she have a name like that?  It’s Tamris.  _Tanya_ , the very _idea_ …”

Hope rubs her temple.  “Illy and Tam.  Proof positive that the multiverse has a sense of humor.”

“Illy, lemme in!” Tamris demands, knocking again.  “Lemme in, or I’ll go get Dad and tell him you’ve got a _boy_ in there!”

Abandoning the idea of hiding her guests under the bed, Illy runs to the door and jerks it open a crack.  “You wouldn’t!  I don’t!  You liar!”

Tamris shoves the door open and walks in like she owns the place.  She looks exactly like Illy, except for her pale hair and suspicious expression.

“Yeah, male or female, Tom’s the same in any universe,” Hope sighs.  “Why does so much trouble center around magic twins?”

“Who are you?” asks Tamris, pointing at Hope.  “Who’s she?” she asks, pointing at Mina.  “Who are they?” she finally demands of her sister.

Illy stomps her foot and shuts the door.  “I don’t actually know, if you’d just shut it for five seconds and let me explain…”

 _~Can everyone please sit down and shut up?~_ asks Eight-ball.

The twins obediently sit on the bed.

 _~Auditor, you’re looking at the source of your unup.  Do your job.~_

Hope nervously straightens her shirt.  “Um.  Hi.  I’m Hope.  Uh.”  She pulls Kali from a cargo pocket and holds it up.  “Illy, could you just say your name, please?”

“Illamar?”

The red sphere blinks and beeps.  _~Ident confirmed.~_

“Okay,” says Hope, reading whatever’s written in Kali’s depths.  “Illamar Magnus ES212, you are charged with unauthorized upstream tuning.  This charge and your culpability are not in question.  But, uh, since you’re young and you probably didn’t know what you were doing, I’ll let you off with a warning.”

“Huh?” says Illy, looking at Hope like she’s speaking a foreign language.

 _To be fair, she sort of is._

Mina rolls her eyes.  “What’s in the wardrobe, kid?”

Illy sits ramrod straight.  “Nobody!” she says again.  “Nothing!”

Tamris slowly grins.  “No _body_ , eh?”

The twins stare at each other in silence for about two seconds, then race for the wardrobe, tripping and hair-pulling and biting the whole way.

Wade cheerfully opens the wardrobe while the twins are fighting.

Cramped among dresses and coats and cloaks, a teenage boy sheepishly smiles.  “Hi.  I didn’t mean to be such a bother.”

“A Teddy,” Hope says, smacking herself in the forehead.  “Of course.”

“A what?” the twins say, pausing in their scuffle.

“Nothing, nevermind.”

Mina beckons.  “Come on, outta there.  I’ll just take a wild guess and say she _wished_ for you or _made_ you or something like that.  What’s your name, kid?”

He nods as he steps carefully past the twins and stands in front of Mina.  “She hasn’t actually named me yet.”

Tamris chuckles.  “Illy made a _boy_ friend, Illy made a _boy_ friend,” she sings.  “Dad’s gonna go _apocalyptic_.”

“Shut up, Tam!  You tell Daddy about this and I’ll tell him about all the times you snuck off to the Floating Market!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would!”

“Girls!” says Wade.

Hope gestures to the boy.  “Illy, uh…this is kind of a really _bad_ use of your magic.  Okay?  Don’t make people.  Ever.  I’ll let you keep him, just because nothing seems to have been seriously messed up…but if you ever do this again, I’ll have to come back and arrest you.”

“Arrest?” Illy says blankly.

“Lock you up.  For the rest of your life, in this case.  You’d never see your father or sister again, and whatever you’d magicked up would have to be undone.”

“Wow,” says Tamris.

“Daddy makes things all the time!” Illy protests.

“Never from scratch,” Wade says.  “That’s a rule.  I’m surprised he didn’t teach you about it…  You’re only supposed to use magic to rearrange things.  The only way you’re supposed to create life is with plant seeds or what’s between your legs.”

Illy self-consciously sits up properly and fixes her skirt.

“Yeah,” Wade goes on.  “Making something with a soul without using bits of _other_ things with souls weakens the boundaries between worlds.  Okay?”

Illy nods.

“And find a better place to hide your new toy, huh?  The bed and the closet are always the first places anybody checks.”

 _Totally._

Mina nods her agreement.  “Good.  We done here?  Can I go home now?”

Suddenly, Wade is at Mina’s side, black-stained fingers wiggling on Mina’s shoulders like tarantula legs.  “Ah, before you go…I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Binky there has taken quite a shine to you.  He was a dutiful mouser in life, and just as loyal as can be.  I might be convinced to part with him for the low, low price of…a shin?”

Mina is unimpressed.  “You’re really hung up on my shins.  What’re you planning on doing with it if I give you one?”

“You’re the same size as…someone I know who could use a spare.  The left, please.”

“Mowww,” says Mr. Binky, plaintively.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mina huffs.  “Fine.  Might as well, since they grow back…  But just the left one!”  She pulls her knife from her carryall.  “Those of you who are squeamish, please look away.”

The twins quickly turn their backs.

Surprisingly, Hope doesn’t.  She doesn’t seem at all bothered by the somewhat messy process of Mina cutting into her own leg and laboriously disarticulating her tibia.  (It’s actually a lot less painful than breaking a bone, she notices.)

“And no hopalong jokes,” Mina tells Hope as she hands Wade the bone.  The cut is already closing, but it’ll be about an hour before the bone’s regrown.

Wade quickly pulls out her tapemeasure.  “Ooh, I was right!  Perfect!  My poor Franken-Neena’s finally going to have a matched set.”

Hope shakes her head.  “Kali, get us a tunnel back to Mina’s home branch.”

 _~Turnmeoffturnmeoff!~_ Eight-ball calls from the carryall.

Mina plunges a hand into her bag.  She feels cool crystal just before she feels the tickle of moving between universes.

“Sorry,” Hope says belatedly.  “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, he’s off.”  Mina peers into the carryall.

Mr. Binky is now a rather scrawny and scarred specimen with greenish eyes and that same complacent expression from the light of the Black Flame Candle.  He’s missing part of one ear and a few patches of his marmalade fur, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.  “Mrrr?” he says.

Mildly concerned, Mina holds Eight-ball up to daylight and turns him back on.

 _~Hope, if I had a face, I would be glaring at you very sternly.~_

“Um.  Sorry?”

 _~STERNLY.~_

Hope pouts a little and fidgets with Kali.  “Still new to this, y’know.  Are you okay?”

 _~…Yes.  I’m reasonably sure.  Mina, if we hurry, we’ll make it home in time to catch the new episode of Glee.~_

“Gotta get a can of food for Mr. Binky,” Mina says, shaking her head.

“Ooh, wait…” says Hope.  She pokes a button on the iPod-lookin’ thing on her belt.  It glows for a moment and spits out a can of Meow Mix, which Hope holds out to Mina.  “There.”

 _She just keeps cat food in her sci-fi Bag of Holding?_

“It’s not a Bag of Holding, although it operates on similar principles, and it was Wade who put a can of cat food in it under the entry ‘Noms for Mr. Binky.’”

 _Gah, always with the mind-reading!_

“And I’m still not a mind-reader.  Have a nice day.”

Mina stuffs Eight-ball and the cat food into her carryall and sort of hop-limps for the sidewalk to whistle for a cab.  It’s time to get her Gleek on.

 

 **.End.**


	4. Go Get Your Shovel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamris has been sneaking out to the Floating Market.  Her father finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel very awkward about this one.  it held me at gunpoint and made me write it.  i honestly don't know what's going on here.
> 
>  **warnings:**   AU - Fateverse.  rampant rule 63 lolwut.  crossover with several flavors of Neil Gaiman literature, notably Neverwhere.  language: g.
> 
>  **pairing:**   none/gen.
> 
>  **timeline:**   local year AD 2005, shortly after Hope and Mina drop by.
> 
>  **disclaimer:**   the original versions of Wade, Magneto, Wanda, and the Young Avengers belong to marvel.  au and au versions belong to me.  Neverwhere, the Sandman graphic novels, and all recognizable characters and terms thereof belong to Neil Gaiman.
> 
>  **notes:**   1) title is a reference to Paramore's "Brick by Boring Brick."  2) the twins float.  i don't know why, except that floating is cool and magicky.  3) Scrimshander!Wade makes her skeleton keys out of the fingers of locksmiths.  4) a ragman (or rag-and-bone man) is, in myth, a tinker-like figure who takes old dirty rags and gives back clean ones in payment.  modern-day rag-and-bone men are essentially junk collectors.
> 
> P.S. this is a world for which i have no further plans.  any authors who are so inclined may write fic here, remembering that the ES bundle is pretty much a cross between the worlds of Neverwhere and The Sandman.

**Go Get Your Shovel**

 

Tamris Magnus is sixteen and has left her house a grand total of ten times.  Four of those times, she snuck out.  It’s only in the last year that she’s mustered the courage and defiance to pick the lock of the garden door and fly out into the night.

Before, she would only sneak as far as the garden, sitting barefoot in the grass and staring at freedom.  They aren’t allowed to go into the garden without their father.  Illamar, Tamris’ twin sister, says it’s because the plants draw dangerous things that their father keeps at bay.  Tamris believes their father just doesn’t want to give them a chance to run off.

Today (Tonight?  Who can tell, down here away from the sun?), she crouches beside the foxglove and stares at the door out.  Down on the lawns, the Front Wall moans, warning away visitors.  She’s barefoot.  She and her sister are always barefoot; they have no shoes.  Why would they need them when they’re forbidden to leave the house and hardly touch the ground in the first place?

Illy has threatened to tell their father about Tamris’ excursions.  Illy accidentally made herself a boyfriend, however, and Tamris hopes being privy to that knowledge will keep her secret safe.  Hard to say.  Illy can do some very stupid and very mean things when the mood strikes her.

But Tamris has tasted the thrill and bustle of the Floating Market, and the yearning to go back is a heady thing which cannot be long denied.

So she stands, takes up her little bag of barter and money, and picks the lock.  Beyond, there is deeper darkness, and stairs.  A snap of her fingers summons a glow-wisp, and she floats along after it, toes only skimming the ground occasionally to change direction.

Some people have to ask or be told where the next Floating Market will be held.  The glow-wisp just _knows_.

This time, the Floating Market is in an abandoned auditorium.  The high windows are boarded over, and Tamris spies the flutter of pigeons in the rafters, barely lit by the lanterns and cook fires of the market.  The place is crowded with people buying, selling, trading.  Almost anything can be purchased at the Floating Market.  There are animal vendors, food stalls, bodyguards, trinket shops…  The Dream-Seller and the Lost Items Booth and the Unlikely Arms and Armourer.

As Tamris floats her way along, the Bone Collector looks up from repairing someone’s terrier and smiles a knowing little smile.  The Bone Collector has been to their house several times, selling her services to Tamris’ father.  She’ll keep this secret, because secrets amuse her, and because she likes knowing things that other people don’t.

Tamris needs more jewellery-making supplies.  She touches down at an oddment shop and haggles for beads and bangles and bits of broken clockwork.  Turning a profit is easy when you barter with spelled jewellery; it’s amazing how much people will pay for silly little enchantments.  The spells are easy, too—simple levitation, tracking spells, remembrance spells—trifling things that any idiot with an ounce of magic could do, nothing compared to the brilliant things that Illy gets up to, or what the Bone Collector can do with a locksmith’s finger-bone.  If she had the time and patience for it, she could set up a little stall of her own and make a fortune.

A ragman tries to sell her a very pretty dress, but she floats right on by.  New clothes would get her caught immediately, no matter how much she might be tempted by iris-petal ruffles.

Her next stop is a goldsmith, for wire, and she ends up paying more than she’d like.

Beside the goldsmith is a bookman, and the old man peers at her from behind thick spectacles.  “Milady,” he says, just when his staring is starting to make Tamris uncomfortable.  “Could I trouble you to authenticate a manuscript for me?”

“You know who I am?” she asks him.

“Lady Tamris, heir to the House of Magnus, daughter of Elphembre the Red, who is son of Erik Ironbender,” he answers slowly and precisely.  “All your family are trained in the old ways, but you would be schooled in the old _practitioners_ as well.  I can pay you for your service, of course.”  He sets out three big pieces of abalone, oil-slick colours that dance in the flicker of the kerosene lantern sitting next to them.

Things with a memory of the sea…  There’s a lot she could do with that.

Tamris quells a sensation of misgiving.  “Show me.”

He passes her a leather-bound book.

“Feels like cowhide,” she comments.  “Vellum pages…indigo ink…definitely quilled…  It looks like one of Gildamont’s, to me.  Look, there’s that stupid little loop he put on all his Cs.”

“Most excellent!” says the bookman with a grateful little clap of his hands.

Tamris shrugs, passes the book back, takes her payment.  Behind the bookman himself, puttering among the squat little shelves, is a boy about Tamris’ age.  The boy has coffee-dark skin and a shaved head; he handles the books with a protective sort of reverence.  He looks up, and their eyes meet, and Tamris feels herself blush.

When she turns away, her wisp is gone.  That’s a hazard of using glow-wisps…they’re easily distracted.

She wastes several long, dragging minutes hovering around the market, searching for her wisp, all the while worrying with growing urgency that she’s been away from the house too long.  She finds the daft thing flirting fruitlessly with a strand of Christmas lights and gives it a scolding flick with her finger.

“Home!” she commands sharply.

Off it races, away from the market, away from the lights.

She flies through the dark and up the steps, latches the garden door, hurries for the house.  The back hall is silent.  When she sneaks through the kitchen, Bergan just wordlessly glances up from kneading a loaf and shakes his head.

It’s fine.  Everything’s fine.  She’s back.

But her father is waiting in the very middle of her room.  He’s holding her jewellery-making drawer.

She can’t talk her way out of this one.

Her feet touch ground.

“You had no right,” she says, feeling her knees start to shake.  “This is _my_ room!”

“And _my_ house,” her father calmly retorts.

“Well, I _hate_ your house, and I’m sick of seeing nothing but the inside of it.”

“How many times?”

“How many times _what_?” Tamris bites out.  “How many times have you invaded my privacy this year?  I’m thinking it’s somewhere in the neighbourhood of _twenty_.”

He drops the drawer with a resounding crash.  A glass bead bounces away and rolls under the bed.  “How many times have you ventured beyond the garden I specifically told you never to enter without me?”

She clenches her hand on her barter satchel and lifts her chin.  “Four.”

“Just four?”

“If more will make you kick me out, I can lie and say fifteen.”

Her father’s expression is unreadable.  “You are my heir, and as such you have certain responsibilities to our family and our name.”

Tamris points to the next room over.  “I have a twin.  A twin who’s a lot better at your stupid family trade than I am.  Make _her_ your heir and let _me_ have a life!”

“You understand _nothing_ ,” her father tells her coldly.  He walks around her and out the door with a swish of dark robes.

“I hate you!” she shouts ineffectually to her empty room.

When she sneaks down to the garden the next day, the door to the outside world is gone.

Tamris huddles among the mandrakes and cries the hopeless, resentful tears of a thwarted captive.

She will never see the market, with all its light and life and smells, again.  She will never again see Old Bailey and his birds, or Mother Hubbard with her crumpets under the Christmas lights, or that boy at the bookman’s shop.

Hours later, she stands and finds she can no longer levitate.  No matter how she tries, gravity grasps her firmly.  She returns to her room and sits beside her spilled jewellery-making supplies.  Her feet feel raw.

There’s a timid knock at the door.  Her sister.

“Come in,” she says dully.

Illy opens the door just enough to slip in, and closes it right behind her.  Wordlessly, she comes to Tamris’ side and sits close, hips and shoulders touching.  “I heard you and Daddy fighting yesterday,” she offers quietly.  “I swear I didn’t tell him.”

Tamris shrugs.  “Doesn’t matter,” she says.  “Now I’m never getting out of here again.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Illy insists quietly.

She shakes her head.  “No.  I know.”

With a little sigh, Illy puts an arm around her.  “It’s not so bad here, Tam.”

“Easy for you to say.  You’ve got a boy in your wardrobe.  _And_ you’re miles ahead of me in magic.  Why am _I_ his stupid heir when _you’re_ the one who’s good at magic?”

“Your magic stays better.  And he says you were born first.  Eldest is heir, that’s the way it goes, isn’t it?  Grandfather likes you better than he likes me.  Maybe Daddy’s trying to please him.”

Tamris snorts and flicks an amber bead across the floor.

Illy squeezes her close and chafes her arm comfortingly.  “I’ve never had the courage to sneak out into the garden.  Maybe _that’s_ important, too.  Maybe defiance makes you a better heir, I don’t know.  And at least we’ve always got each other.”

That makes Tamris feel wretched and ungrateful.  In all her years of loneliness, she’s always had her sister.  She sniffles and bites her lips.  “Yeah,” she says, leaning her head on her twin’s shoulder.  “Cheers, Illy.”

 

 **.End.**


	5. A Friend on the Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamris is deeply depressed.  Wade stops by to cheer her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> horrible, half-assed, hurriedly written for [~MerianMoriarty](http://merianmoriarty.deviantart.com), because she needed this conversation today.  this could almost happen to a bunch of characters who had nothing to do with anybody's work but mine, it just happened that my obscure little fem!Tommy from a strange corner of the Fateverse was perfect for the job.
> 
>  **warnings:**   AU - Fateverse.  rampant rule 63 lolwut.  crossover with several flavors of Neil Gaiman literature, notably Neverwhere.  depression/mental illness.  language: pg-13 (for use of f***).
> 
>  **pairing:**   none/gen.
> 
>  **timeline:**   local year AD 2005, maybe a week or two after **Go Get Your Shovel**.
> 
>  **disclaimer:**   the original versions of Wade, Wanda, Billy, and Tommy belong to Marvel.  au and au versions belong to me.  Neverwhere, the Sandman graphic novels, and all recognizable characters and terms thereof belong to Neil Gaiman.
> 
>  **notes:**   1) this is what depression is like.  when it gets really bad, you don't even get the fleeting little sparks of almost-excitement from the things you used to like, you just get the dreary grey low of "what's the use?" from them.  2) when you're not too far gone yet, there's an interesting little pivot-point in the mind when you realize "omg, i seriously just thought about killing myself. wtf?"  and then you think of how stupid you're being, and you wonder what's wrong with you and why you can't just snap out of it.  you don't even tell most of your friends or family, because you don't want to worry them.  if they're really lucky, you'll know you should tell at least one of them, and you'll pick one, and you'll _say something_ before it's too late.  3) a certain amount of depression is pretty much unavoidable during the hormonal ups and downs of the teenage years.  the problem comes when it turns into something constant, or when thoughts of self-harm show up more than fleetingly.  4) "whinging" = "whining/complaining."  5) it's not always this easy to snap a friend out of the blues, and it's certainly not this easy to pull them all the way out of a depression, but every little bit helps.  sometimes it can make all the difference to put into words little things you've been thinking all along, like "you know that thing you think you're just okay at? i think you're awesome at it."
> 
>  **p.s.** yeah, i said i was done here, but i couldn't just leave poor Tamris locked up with nothing to look forward to.

**A Friend on the Outside**

 

These days, life for Tamris is an impenetrable grey haze.

When she dresses in the morning, she just throws on any old thing.  Looking at favourite dresses or shirts only reminds her of the iris-petal ruffles on that dress she saw at the Floating Market.

When she pads into the hallway, she barely glances out the window.  If the weather is nice, it’s a reminder that she can’t go out in it.  If the weather is gloomy, she just feels that much more trapped.

When she eats her meals, she mostly just prods her food.  If it’s something she likes, it makes her think of all the ‘low-brow’ foods she only tasted at the Floating Market.  Her father is the enemy, her hateful jailer, who calls her ‘ignorant’ and ‘foolish,’ calls all her actions ‘shameful.’  Her sister could probably blow up half of London without so much as a chiding glance, but Tamris doesn’t even dare open her mouth in their father’s presence.

Today, she’s pushing a dumpling around in her soup bowl when she thinks to herself, ‘ _Wouldn’t it be nice if I just died right now?_ ’

Yes.  Yes, it might.  If she’s going to live her life a prisoner and a constant disappointment, then why bother?

‘ _Could I drown in my soup?_ ’ she wonders, and, ‘ _Would they try to save me?_ ’  But then she starts to worry that her father would blame Bergan, say the soup had been poisoned or bewitched or cursed, and that wouldn’t be fair.  Bergan has always been nice to the twins.

She turns her head to look at the windows of the dining room.  Partly cloudy, today, and warm-ish.  A fine enough day to dive toward the pavement.  But then there’d be all that glass for Marta to clean up.

Maybe a pair of scissors in the bath.  Then it’d just be a quick rinse.

“Tam?”

She looks at her sister’s worried face.

She realizes what she’s been thinking about, and is appalled.

“Nice weather,” Tamris says with a feeble grin.  She waits with clenched teeth for their father to state his utter disagreement, as he does with everything else she ever says.  She waits for the veiled insults, for the treacle-thick air of disdain.

He says nothing.  He doesn’t even look at them.

“May I be excused?” she mumbles.

“You’ve hardly eaten,” says Illamar.

She tries a smile.  “Not hungry.  Too many snacks,” she lies.

After a moment, their father waves a hand.

Tamris quells a rush of spiteful anger.  She stands from her seat, gently sets her napkin on the tablecloth, and walks very calmly back up to her room.

In the safety of her room—

 _not safe,_ not _safe, he comes in whenever he wants_

—she sits down and hugs her knees and stares at nothing.  What a feeling, to be terrified of herself!  To feel as if a part of her mind has betrayed her, turned against her…  But what can she do?  There _is no hope_ for leaving; her father’s made sure of that.  And nobody ever comes to visit, only for business; he’s made sure of _that_ , too.

“Don’t cry,” she tells herself.  “Don’t cry, don’t you _dare_ , you weak, soppy, _useless_ …”  A few tears escape against her will, and she pounds an angry fist against the floor.  “Don’t give him the satisfaction!”

“That’s right, honey,” comes a low, rough voice, accompanied by ink-stained fingers on her shoulders.

Tamris makes an undignified squawking noise as she spins around and clutches her heart.  “Don’t _do_ that!” she admonishes.

The Bone Collector just plops down beside her, muddy trainers peeking out from the edge of that huge cloak.  “You look like a girl who could use an ear to talk to.  I happen to have a pair of ‘em.”

“No,” Tamris huffs, shaking her head.  “It’s stupid.”

“Then it won’t do any harm to tell me, will it?” Wade counters.  “We missed you at the last Floating Market…Hammersmith got his hands on a ring you made, and he’s fallen in love with your design sensibilities.”

Tamris gestures in the vague direction of the gardens.  “The door’s gone.  I can’t get out anymore.”

“Hmmmm,” Wade says neutrally.

“I’m never getting out again,” Tamris gloomily concludes.

“So you’ve got cabin fever, and it’s giving ya the blues.”

“The blues?” echoes Tam.  “Is that what this is?  This stupid, useless, teary-eyed ‘woe is me’ act that I can’t stop?  This…having part of me doing and thinking and feeling things I can’t stand?”

“Mm.  Part of growing up, too.”

Tamris hangs her head.  “I thought about killing myself today.  For a good long while, I thought about it.  I thought about who’d be inconvenienced by each method, calm-as-you-please.  You can’t tell me that’s just ‘part of growing up.’  That can’t be normal.  Normal people don’t say to themselves ‘oh, wouldn’t it be just brilliant if I fell down dead?’”

“Hmmmm,” Wade says again, tilting her head so that a blonde curl spills out of her hood.  “Normal elder twin daughters of the elder twin son of one of the most powerful magic practitioners in history?”

“Okay, _yes_ , I know I’m not actually normal,” mutters Tamris.  “But I’m not any good at magic.  I know a few spells, I know a little bit about the old books, I know a potion or two…  So what if she mixes up Stephanus with Lastranas and can’t tell a truth serum from a cough syrup?  Illy’s always been able to cast any spell he asks of her and _more_.”

Wade drums out a strange rhythm against her knees.  “You know, I once sold your father a brace of owl-skulls, and he paid me in Black Flame Candles.  He didn’t think much of the candles, told me his daughters had made them and they wouldn’t last long.  Your sister’s didn’t—they had maybe an hour each.  The first one of yours has given me weeks of light, and you made it when you were _five_.  Your father was your age before he could make an enchantment with that kind of lifespan.”

Tamris doesn’t know what to make of that information.  It is, so far as she knows, the first time she’s ever been more than mediocre at something related to magic, and _certainly_ the first time she’s ever been better than her father at something.

After a moment, Wade raises a black-tipped finger and wags it through the air.  “Now, I’m not saying your ol’ dad isn’t going about this in a way as fucked up as it is circumspect, but there’s something very special about you that other people are going to want, and he wants you to be safe.”

“You sure he doesn’t just want to make me miserable?” Tamris snorts.  “Because that’s the overall effect of everything he says and does to me.”

“Ahhh, that’s just parents,” Wade scoffs with a flap of her hand.  “Some kinda built-in drive to pass on the way their parents made _them_ miserable.  But look—even if you end up locked away in here for the rest of your life, until you feel like you’re wasting away, there’ll be people on the outside who’ll come to see you no matter how tall that Front Wall gets.  I’ll be out there, telling everybody I meet about this awesome chick I know who does killer enchantments.”

She doesn’t bother to hide her scepticism.  “Yeah, sure.  Who’d walk past that whinging wall just to see _me_?”

Wade grins in the shadows of her hood.  “I told you:  Hammersmith.  The big lug wants to make things for you to enchant.  Your father wouldn’t risk offending the greatest smith in all of London—or possibly all of _England_ —by turning him away like some door-to-door salesman.  He’ll be here any minute.  So you might wanna start picking up your toys.”

That shocks Tamris into action.  She immediately starts scooping up beads and dumping them back in her jewellery-making drawer, reaching under her bed and wardrobe for strays.

Hammersmith.  _The_ Hammersmith.  The one and _only_.  He’s _famous_ , he’s the greatest smith in possibly-all-of-England, and he’s coming to see _Tamris_.

“What the hell am I wearing?” she exclaims when she realizes she’s got on green tights, a pink skirt, and a brown shirt (which is wrong-way-out).  “I gotta get _changed_ , I gotta brush my _hair_ …”

 

 **.End.**


End file.
